


Clean Hands

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Baseball, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-10-31 09:49:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10896813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: “I don’t want to be hurt. I don’t want to make you worry.”





	Clean Hands

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt baseball aomido + hands clean at last (thanks clo!)
> 
> blood/mild injury cw

On the mound, Ochiai goes into his windup, and even before he releases the ball Aomine takes off from second. They rarely try to pull of a hit-and-run in an actual game, and this might damn well be the last one he gets to try for a while. He hears no crack of bat on ball, no scuffle of fielders’ footsteps behind him, and Sakurai, taking over third this inning, is holding out his glove for a throw. Satsuki doesn’t have to tell him to get down; Aomine’s already diving in headfirst. His chest hits the ground; his left hand scrapes the dirt and slows him down; fuck—he reaches with his right, smacking the bag not even a second before Sakurai swipes his glove across Aomine’s helmet.

Fuck, his hands are stinging, but it doesn’t really matter; he’s safe. He calls time and rises to his feet, wiping his hands on his pants, not bothering to find an open space that hasn’t been streaked with infield dirt from the slide. He looks down at his palms; they’re both still covered in dirt (it’s caking under the stubby ends of his nails, too; he can feel it) and the skin on the heels is torn and scraped. It’s still stinging, and beads of blood are beginning to rise to the surface. Aomine wipes his hands again.

“All right?” says Satsuki.

“Fine.”

He’s had worse, and it’s worth it to be safe at third, even in a training camp scrimmage. Aomine wipes his palms again and takes a short lead, watching Ochiai carefully. He doesn’t bother looking at Aomine, delivering the pitch almost immediately. Asahina connects; it’ll probably go deep enough into center for a sac. Aomine strolls back to the bag, waiting; the ball drifts higher, slower. If Asahina’s swing had caught the ball just a little higher, he might have a homer; from the look on his face he knows it, too. Finally, the ball drifts down and lands with a smack in the center fielder’s glove, and Aomine’s off for home. There’s a throw (it’s camp; there’s no one on base) but it reaches the plate after he’s already crossed it standing. He fist-bumps Asahina (bad swing or no, he’d gotten the run in) and jogs back into the dugout. He’s expecting a congratulation or something from Midorima, but he looks cross, clutching the first-aid kit. Wasn’t his lucky item a bottlecap?  Is he still upset about striking out last inning?

“Show me your hands,” says Midorima.

Aomine holds them out; the blood is smeared and drying on top of the dirt; it’s kind of gross and grungy. Midorima carefully opens the first-aid kit, removing his batting glove and donning a set of rubber gloves, supposedly one-size-fits-all but clearly too small for his long fingers.

“It’s not even bleeding now,” says Aomine.

Midorima ignores him, tearing open a sanitary towelette. He first takes Aomine’s right hand, scrubbing dirt away from the scrape, and then does the same with Aomine’s left. Then he takes another towelette and starts to clean the blood off.

“Ow—you’re going to open it back up.”

“You should be more careful,” says Midorima. “Have you ever considered wearing gloves just while you’re running?”

“Nah,” says Aomine, wincing as Midorima wipes right across the heel of his left hand (the blood is scrubbing away, but no more is coming up). “Too much trouble. I’m fine.”

Midorima looks up, the shadow of the brim of his cap doing nothing to conceal the sharpness in his eyes through his glasses or the frown on his face. Aomine doesn’t get it; he’s fine and Midorima usually likes getting to take care of him like this, bandaging up his little scrapes and the turf burn on his knees when they practice on fake grass, almost smiling when Aomine whines at him about the blisters from his new cleats. This is something else, something he can’t quite figure out, even from context. He’s fine; his hands have seen worse, even as a result of a slide. He’s about to try and ask Midorima more when the smack of leather on leather, a well-hit line drive snagged out of the air by Sakurai, signifies the third out. Midorima gives Aomine’s hands a last once-over before letting them go (and Aomine hadn’t even had time to properly enjoy Midorima holding his hands in the dugout, rubber gloves or not, damn it).

They’ll talk about it more later; Aomine’s sure of that much.

*

They don’t get to talk for the rest of the game; at least there’s never a chance for them to steal a moment uninterrupted, and the shitty training camp locker room is too muggy and crowded to get more than a moment with his arm slung around Midorima’s bare shoulders (and despite his peeling sunburn, Midorima still blushes in the usual way and Aomine feels more than a little bit relieved; whatever this is he’s not too mad).

Most of the younger kids are tired out and retreat back to the cabin to sleep; some of the other guys organize a makeshift game of volleyball out front. Aomine claims the back steps, weeds poking through the splintering wood, for himself and Midorima. Midorima’s gotten another first-aid kit (or maybe it’s the same one from the dugout); he turns Aomine’s hands over in his, ungloved for now; Aomine leans into the softness of his skin, the touch still firm.

“What’s up?” Aomine says. “You’re mad at me.”

Midorima looks up, biting his lip like he’s weighing the options, denial versus deflection versus the reality of whatever it is.

“Or upset with me. Or upset in general?” says Aomine. “Shintarou, please. Tell me.”

Midorima pulls another towelette out of the first-aid kit. “Wash your hands.”

“Are you going to tell me if I do?”

Midorima nods, and Aomine dutifully scrubs at his palms, the bits of dried blood from taking a few hacks with a spare bat for show after his shower and the grime that’s already settled back into his nailbeds. He holds one hand up to the light—is he going to have to pass some sort of inspection for Midorima to just tell him?

“It’s stupid,” says Midorima. “I’m sorry.”

Aomine doesn’t even know what he’s apologizing for.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his voice soft, holding out his right hand.

Midorima takes it; he doesn’t inspect it but his fingers slide over the torn skin and stop, and he frowns.

“It’s not stupid if it’s causing you this much concern.”

He squeezes Midorima’s hand, and waits until Midorima looks up again before giving him what he hopes is an encouraging smile.

“You slide headfirst a lot,” says Midorima. “I know you don’t usually get hurt, and this is just a scrape—but. You could get seriously injured doing that, if you’re not careful, and I just worry.”

“Oh. Baby.”  

Aomine can’t think of what to say. He’d never realized it had actually bothered Midorima; it had always been one of those things, like the backwards cap or undone buttons on his uniform, that Midorima would comment on occasionally but that Aomine had thought he’d liked or at least been okay with. He strokes his thumb over Midorima’s hand and Midorima looks at him, unyielding but Aomine can see the concern etched on his face and he needs to do something to wipe it off like the dirt from his hands.

“I can’t tell you to change the way you play like that. And I know nothing’s really happened yet,” says Midorima.

He swallows.

“I had no idea,” says Aomine. “Every time?”

Midorima nods, fractionally. Shit. That’s once every couple of games, plus practice, plus—how long? Why hasn’t he said anything before?

“Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t know; I didn’t figure it out…”

“You couldn’t have,” says Midorima. “Like I said, it’s—”

“Not stupid,” Aomine interrupts. “I know; people have told me it’s dangerous before but I just.”

(He’s only ever dismissed them, because he hasn’t gotten hurt and he’s not super-careful but he’s probably not, like, going to get a concussion.)

“I don’t necessarily want you to stop doing it, but could you try to be more careful?”

Midorima’s hedging and undermining his own request, in disconcerting contrast to how he’s usually so strident and demanding. He shouldn’t be doing this—it’s more than reasonable to ask for, and Aomine’s not mad at him at all. If he’s mad at anyone it’s himself for not having realized any of this sooner. He cups Midorima’s cheek in his free hand and leans over, kissing his mouth quickly and gently. Midorima’s eyes are still wide when Aomine draws back.

“I’ll be more careful. I promise you.”

Midorima’s face softens (God, that’s cute). “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I don’t want to be hurt. I don’t want to make you worry.”

Aomine’s always had a tendency to slide headfirst, play up the tension and pump everyone up, stand up with the front of his uniform covered in dirt and feel damn good about it, but this isn’t the first time someone’s told him it’s unsafe or unreliable. And just because he hasn’t gotten seriously hurt and only rarely called out doesn’t mean it’s good to rely on it as often as he does, not if it’s going to make Midorima worry like this.

“It’s exciting, though, right? When I slide headfirst?” he says.

Midorima looks at him—not like he’s mad or like it’s made him think Aomine’s done a 180 in five seconds. “Occasionally.”

He can’t say it without a faint smile creeping onto his lips, and that’s all Aomine needs (but it’s a damn good bonus when Midorima slides his fingers tighter between Aomine’s and scoots a little closer on the step).


End file.
